What Echoes
by radishface
Summary: In death, this is how Light serves penance. Very mild Light/L


**What Echoes **

His (its, those) last dying breaths whisper him across boundaries of space, time, and speech. As if guided by an invisible hand, he (it, that) is dropped here and in alternating states of consciousness, and experiences all of this at the same time, forever.

0.

Light is strapped to a slab of obsidian. It feels cool on his back, and does not warm with his body. His arms are tied above his head, stretching out, and his toes are pointed down, arched so that the balls of his feet and his toes touch the surface against which he lies. He remains suspended, riveted in this tense position, the bonds holding him invisible and strong. Light is naked, and imagines his white body a stark contrast against the black slab. He feels immeasurably flat. Time does not matter, and he does not wonder how long he will be here.

1.

There is a room with one chair in the middle of it. It is a black chair, straight-backed, with four legs that are also black. Black is the quality of the chair; it is not painted.

Light sits in the chair, waiting. There are two small slits on opposite ends of the room, no bigger than his hand.

A piece of black paper comes through the slit at the left end of the room, slipped in with a small rustling sound, fluttering to the floor with a deft crispness that leaves no room for wonderment or question. Light stands and walks over to pick it up. Apart from a single white mark on it, straight down the middle, it is only black, like the chair, not dyed from any ink. It possesses the quality of blackness that makes it completely absolute.

Light has a choice. He can deliver the paper to the other slot, or keep it in this room. This room is infinitely large and can hold as many pieces of paper as needed. The papers come in irregularly, when they please. Soon Light is standing with a pile of black paper at his feet, and he decides on a course of action. He takes one slip and puts it in the opposite slot. He is communicating with the _outside_ in binary code. He will spell something, one letter, maybe more. He will spend the rest of eternity, maybe, spelling out a command, over and over again with black slips of paper, ones and zeroes, in this elementary computer. Light is a circuit, an unbalanced equation.

2.

Light is just that. He penetrates an indiscernible blankness, cuts through the white noise, illuminates a space, if it is not _space_ itself.

He is everywhere and every little bit, but spread so thin, feeling so fragile. He is running at the speed of light, vibrating in a thin sheet of three dimensions, the thrumming of his movement rippling across space, manifesting as white noise, a dull, steady hum. Everything about him is colliding yet there is nothing to report for it, no explosions, crashes, accidents.

Just him, existing, running, colliding, forever.

3.

Light has eyes to see, and a solid body to feel, but this is merely a detail. He is standing in a white plaster room with a white plaster ceiling (or perhaps a foggy sky) some many meters above his head. A bright, sterile light emanates from nowhere, illuminating everything so that there are no shadows. A white noise fills his ears, clean and abrasive as bleach.

A white wall stands in front of him shows one million white doors, all constructed exactly the same way. His body is superfluous because he already knows what awaits him. A million doors, the destinations behind them changing every second. Each door has a one in a million chance of being the right door. Behind each door is a one in a million chance of being the right destination.

Light walks forward and opens the door in front of him. Another room of white plaster, another million doors. He crosses the distance between the door behind him and opens another door, two doors down. Another room of alabaster, another million doors. He continues to do this, losing patience, he breaks out into a run, barging through doors without looking, without knowing what is at the end, if there is an end. His breath comes quickly, his mortal body grows tired, but he somehow has energy, or stamina, or life. He runs and runs and hopes that one door will lead him outside (what is _outside_?). His goal is singular (or one _million_?).

He barges through one room too quickly, chances a look back as the door slams behind him. Light catches a glimpse of tousled black hair and bare feet. He twists around, mid-step, to force the door back open, but it won't budge. He bangs on the door, opening his mouth to say something, but he's forgotten already what it is he wants to say. He tries to make a sound, as if this will help him remember—he only needs one letter. Light realizes that he cannot speak, his voice has fallen dead in his throat.

So he turns again and steps forward, opens the fourth door to the right. Many rooms and doors later, he is running again.

4.

Light is outside.

He is standing in a field of black grass, outside, the sky overcast. The ground is wet and soggy, and he thinks that he is in a marsh, the ground dirtied with peat and bog water, rendering it that black, murky color. The marsh is infinitely large, and walking around will always lead him back to the same place. A faint fog obscures his vision, but it only seems to be in front of his eyes. He blinks (with his _eyelids?_) and walks a few steps forward.

He sees a hole of infinite depth, that which lies before him. Light stands on the edge, his toes curling and uncurling around the edges. He tries to wiggle the dirt from the ground, send the earth to a plummeting faith. The ground refuses to budge; he is unable to affect his surroundings.

Light has two choices.

5.

He is sitting on the steps, enclosed in an inky darkness that is not absolute enough to call itself black, in a space between inside and outside the investigation headquarters. This space, which has only served a transitioning function from the top floor to the roof, has now found another purpose. A broken fluorescent light flickers sporadically, emitting a dull, thrumming buzz of electric noise, bequeathing shadows as often as it steals them.

L has Light's feet in his hands, thumbs and knuckles kneading carefully up the length of his foot and back down again, his hands incongruously warm despite his pallor, despite the rain and the biting cold outside. He watches L with cool regard, ice in his eyes masking the tension behind.

The silence between them runs silky and long, stretching into eternity. Sitting there, his heart pounding and his hands clenched at the edge of the millionth stair, Light wonders what death _is_, if L has really lived life to the fullest. Light wonders if his role in L's life has been completely fulfilled, and if fulfillment is a right or merely a detail in the course of human life.

Eventually L looks up from his ministrations. He holds Light's gaze, eyes as black as obsidian slabs. Light is riveted by them, rendered immeasurably flat in two dimensions and stripped naked of his pretenses. He is left with only himself, every iota of him thrumming with the unbearable lightness of being. Time does not matter as they stare at each other; they could sit here forever, two opposites at peace, the equation perfectly balanced. His heartbeat, hollow in his chest, steadily counters the eerie song of stairwell echoes; it is the only measure of tracking the time that is passing.

L parts his lips, as if to say something, _Light-kun, _and Light's breath catches in the back of his throat. He feels something blossom in his chest, warm and golden like candlelight, just as subtle: the right choice. Light believes he has two choices.

But in truth, that choice has already been made.


End file.
